


Apostrophe

by Interested_Observer



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 14:20:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21393592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interested_Observer/pseuds/Interested_Observer
Summary: 'The punctuation mark shows possession, or marks the omission of one or more letters (contraction). Apostrophe in literature is an arrangement of words addressing a non-existent person or an abstract idea in such a way as if it were present and capable of understanding feelings."Content in this work may be risque for some readers.





	1. Pilcrow

**Author's Note:**

> It's not an original idea, but perhaps a new perspective sheds light on interesting possibilities.
> 
> After all, good artists steal.

The alarm clock blares.

I naturally respond.

Intuitively, I hear a click, and the alarm stops.

Eye rub. Blink. Blink again.

Six-thirty.

It's a Friday, which means it's time for school. Tomorrow's my birthday, which means I have to think about what I want to buy. Monday's a school day, which means I have to submit homework. Except I'm not in the mood for homework.

Autonomously, with my thoughts scattered and riding the line between metaphysical and spiritual future and past logical and abstract I proceed downstairs.

Breakfast awaits. Pancakes, bacon, milk. Cut the pancakes, grab bacon, drink milk. Done.

Brush teeth. Comb hair. Change clothes. Use the toilet. Done.

I've done this routine for the last three months. Start walking to school at seven. Arrive at school. Done.

Witness the ephemeral couples at bloom, as I snicker internally. Watch drama arise from mere skirmishes or utterly uninteresting events, as I snicker internally. Society as normal moves along as time moves, while I observe and snicker internally.

Though I've realized that I'm no different than society. Like society, there's a lot of moving parts in my life that could break at any time, and will break. Maybe somebody else will break it for me. Thus, disaster is impending and inevitable – a law of life.

First period starts. English, writing, grammar, pointless folly. Listen to the teacher, take notes, finish some worksheets, groan when homework is assigned.

Second period starts. History, wars, economic systems, sociopolitical relations, foreign affairs. It manages to hold my interest, at the very least. Listen to the teacher, take notes, finish some worksheets, groan when homework is assigned.

Third period stars. Science, intensely pragmatic concepts. Listen to the teacher, take notes, finish some worksheets, groan when homework is assigned.

Lunch rolled around at this point. Developing teenager that I was, I managed to make friends and allies. I'm sure people had to find me interesting in some regard, after all.

Or they just use me for my pure intellect so that they can breeze through homework and go on with their debauchery.

Either way, I can't complain. Society in its vast contradictions about human interaction still manages to accommodate everyone, at the expense of popularity and reputation.

I manage to locate a table and make idle chatter with my friends. Currently, there's nothing interesting occurring in their lives – no drama, no tension, nothing. Just gossip and the latest rumors.

They don't interest me.

Lunch ends, and the monotony of the day resumes until it reaches a definite end. Me being the diligent student with astounding amounts of school pride, I board the bus to head home and immediately procrastinate.

Sighing, I stare at the lone binder laying on my desk. Papers are stuffed inside brimming with questions and charts and diagrams and readings.

It doesn't motivate me to actually give it more than a second's thought. After all, I remember a saying along the lines of “work hard, play hard”.

I suppose I'll play hard.

I check the time; it's 16:00. I realize that I'm fatigued from school, so I plop down into bed, and snuggle under the covers...

* * *

_October 26_

I awake naturally at midnight. It's Saturday.

I realize that my procrastination session didn't last long, but steel my resolve and decide that it's enough for today.

I look into my backpack and notice that all I managed to do was to remove my binder before I slept. I proceed to fumble and feel around the backpack, pulling out textbooks and assorted notes.

I turn on my desk lamp, and get to work.

Two hours would pass in silence and sheer concentration; the air held its breath, time seemed to pause, the world faded to monochrome. I finished my work at this point; and in an instant, my perceived stasis had ended.

...Now there's nothing else to do.

Already, lewd images had infiltrated my thoughts. It was night, I was alone, I was single, and it had been a while.

...Okay, I think it's fine.

I conclude that I probably wasn't going to get much sleep tonight. Therefore, I go downstairs and start brewing a pot of coffee. Booting up a video game console, dawn vanquishes night as I indulge in tomfoolery.

Mentally, I occupied myself by taking stock of my current situation.

I'm a single, fourteen year old boy. It's the age where I should start having relationships. My body and natural instinct is screaming for it, at war with my logical side that tells me that school is of greater importance.

Logic clearly wins this situation.

Ultimately, my life is fine where it is. Perhaps starting my first year of high school should be a larger shock, but if my largest worry is finding a significant other – then that's not much of a problem. Humans are social creatures who can accept platonic relationships. If I've lead a life of loneliness up to this point, I'd think I've constructed the appropriate measures and constructs in order to continue said life.

There's no point in rehashing my earlier thoughts. I'll maintain my stance about high school relationships.

With a rather minor issue dealt with, I watch as my family awakens for the morning. My parents arrive around eight in the morning, after a hard night of work. My sister is still in bed, after sleeping late. I'm at the door, and wondering whether there's time for breakfast.

A rather typical sight of a nuclear family. Parents work, return home; the children go to school, return home. Family eats dinner, does things, discusses nothing in particular.

A very formulaic life.

Though ultimately, I have to wonder if it truly was an idyllic life for me.

I work yet another day designing computers and other technologies. A realistic dream, completely unbefitting for the dreams of my fourteen year old self.

But I can't complain. I can afford a decent sized house. A vehicle. Some niceties to clutter my house with once in a while.

Yet I still face the issue of fifteen years ago.

My classmates have since moved on with life. Some died doing idiotic things – thinking they could get big on the streets, cheat and cut corners making money, whatever unholy crimes they've committed. Some have started to enter the decline into poverty. Some were reckless with their relationships.

Whatever their fate was, I can't be bothered to care anymore.

Maybe it's an immature thought to have at thirty. I wouldn't be surprised; perhaps the child within me is crying out at me to stop, do this, do that, do whatever in its immature mannerisms.

I can't be bothered to care anymore. In a way, I've lived a continuity of then; while freer, my parent is the cruel mistress of responsibility.

I suppose this is my punishment for keeping out of social circles...

I ponder over my thoughts this morning while downing some coffee. The sounds of music resonate throughout my house, mixed in with the buzz of television and garnished with the purring of my cat beside me.

I prepare a can of food and beckon my cat to jump onto the table. With one last pet, I say goodbye and issue commands to my home to maintain itself. I've made my final preparations – briefcase, wallet, coat.

I check my wristwatch and note that there's enough time for light exploration. I opt to take the train today, but deviate from my usual route.

I walk past a high school just as classes begin, watching the students shuffle in like bees to honey; the comparison is accentuated by the identical uniforms. I quickly deduce that the students are young women; it's an all-girls school.

I should probably feel something about that, but I don't. I continue onward, noticing the fact that I'm getting several glances as a passerby.

It's not long before I've entered the train station. I pass through the usual turnstiles, wait at the usual platform, and board a different train with a different car composition.

The one variant of my commute that I appreciate.

_Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk._

The doors open as swaths of people file in to be trapped like sardines.

The train travels. It wraps around neighborhood and city, sometimes bisecting it, sometimes bisecting other train lines. It hisses at every station it stops at, eating people and regurgitating them. I observe the sights outside the window, enjoying how the train cradles and warms me with its ever incessant but gentle rocking, singing me a lullaby of thunks and clacks.

It almost makes me regret having to exit the train, but I convince myself to do so anyway.

I extract my water bottle from my briefcase, and utilize a nearby water fountain to top it off. The water contorts its form – bending and twisting to fit its newfound container.

Thus began another day of work.

* * *

_October 28_

Thus began another day of school.

The school was abuzz for its fall events – upcoming dances, festivals, celebrations, etc.

I contemplated the amateur level posters for the various events; I decided I'd try to attend one of these for a change of pace. There was little risk for me; I suppose some networking would help me get far.

The bell rung for the first class of the day on a Monday. It's obvious how I would feel about that.

Through sheer fortitude, minutes eclipsed seconds, and hours eclipsed minutes. Lunch break was upon us. I could now be among my friends and make idle chit chat.

Yet beyond all expectations, everyone seemed rather distant. Nobody seemed in much of a mood to speak; I ascertained from their facial expressions that there were internal conflicts warring in their mind, but I couldn't determine of what nature.

It reminded me of the life I led, and hoped to distance myself from.

The rest of the day had me concerned about that silent lunch. Not one day passed where I wasn't having fun with my friends then; sure, there were times where the comedy was drier or the talk of the table was serious. Sure, I haven't considered spending time with them, and couldn't call them friends.

But never had this happened.

I couldn't make heads or tails of this, be it logical or emotional. Perhaps it was a premonition of some kind, prompted by fate.

That was an outcome I couldn't discount.

I went to sleep with my mind in a haze. By no means did I consider myself panicked; but rather, in a state of contemplation, pensiveness, and ultimately confusion.

Work is over, and my schedule for the rest of the day was free.

I had requested my boss to move to a work-from-home schedule; I'd been working there for five years anyways. I had gotten on good terms with him – and yes, drinking was involved; it's an arguably effective way to form a friendship – and convinced him that it'd be a temporary condition.

The terms were that I could spend the weekdays at home, but had to go to the office on the weekends. This would last until the end of the year, due to some bureaucratic nonsense. It was an acceptable deal.

I checked my wristwatch. It was five o'clock; the day had been mystically full of manufacturing troubles, as my prototypes failed to be produced by the end of the day. I had yet another stroke of luck, however; management waved it off, praised me for the work, assured it'd be fixed – after all, it was me merely improving a winning design.

Either way, I'd already bought a train ticket to a hot springs for my two days off. I decided to pace around the city.

The scorching neon and shimmering LEDs had bathed the center of town in a palette of red and blue; with every passing second came a new advertisement to change the palette anew, to green, to purple, to magenta, to orange. Running amok among the advertisements were people shopping for trinkets or ephemeral meals or whatever.

It didn't hold my interest. I left the bustling commercial districts, and retreated into the neighborhoods. I had experienced enough of the enclosure and claustrophobia of the city, anyways.

I wander around the neighborhoods and ultimately find myself watching a high school sports game by some abstract chance.

The school was clearly private, accentuated by its walls and gates and decades of tradition that ran through the grounds. It had seemed life had not advanced past World War II, only if it weren't painfully obvious that the gleaming neighborhood was outside of its grounds.

I stopped focusing on the game and placed more attention on the atmosphere and architecture. It was reminiscent of a Catholic mission school, what with its eloquent style and overwhelming attention to detail. It was as if a Renaissance painting came to life.

Then, it clicked.


	2. Period

...What do you want with me?

_What do you want with me?_

(I chuckle.)Alright, I'm sorry. I feel like I owe everyone this explanation as to why I've been so depressed lately.

_...Yeah, I know. I stick out like a sore thumb, what with the suit and tie._

_ **Time passes.** _

And that's it, really. I guess it's stupid that those are my feelings, but I think you know what they tell you about the small things about life.

Maybe I have approached life from the wrong direction after all, and maybe I should've accepted people from the beginning.

I guess I thought I did that, but I must've been deluding myself.

It's just...well, I can't logically explain it. It's an emotional thing. I shouldn't be in the position to say this, but I think we should've been more open about this. Though really, we'll all go to sleep and maybe forget all about this...

But that's the worst case scenario, anyways.

_Hah, you like the getup? I mean, I'm an engineer. It sure doesn't look like I'd do hard work in these clothes, but I do._

_Yeah, mental work is a different kind of work. You could say it exercises a different muscle._

_(Moment of silence.)_

_You're blushing, by the way. It's probably surprising to hear that._

_Well, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so straightforward._

_Anyway, I'm sure I must come across as enigmatic. However you choose to interpret that is your decision._

_Haha, you'd like my phone number? ...Alright, here it is. Feel free to speak to me about anything, by the way. I won't criticize you for any strange hobbies or interests you may have._

* * *

**This feels wrong.**

* * *

_October 29_

I really shouldn't have done that.

It was out of duty and generosity, honestly. After all, she wanted this, didn't she?

Was I truly being generous in that moment?

It doesn't matter now. Causality placed me in this position, and now I have to analyze it. I feel the impulse to call upon my younger self, immature and naive brat that he is.

But why? Why would I consult somebody less experienced?

There's no logical answer to this situation. Maybe it might be the right thing to do, for all I know. As it stands, my vacation has been ruined.

...Mulling over this won't achieve anything. I'll have to approach this from a different angle.

I mean, I guess I've accomplished something already. It may seem utterly random to dump a bunch of drivel onto my friends, but it was out of my emotional sake.

It's fine to be a little selfish if it means others aren't hurt more.

The rest of the day passes with me in a peaceful mood. It seems as if I've learned something new in life, haven't I? I can't believe it took me so long to realize such a simple concept...

* * *

_October 30_

The next day, I receive a text from that girl first thing in the morning.

_Right, I'm awake._

_Ah, speaking to me already/ Well, consult your resources is what I say. I'm here to listen._

_Romantic troubles? I wouldn't say that's my field of expertise, but shoot anyways._

_From how you describe it, it seems natural for a girl of your age and caliber. I'm sure if you made a concerted effort, you could attain the attention and respect of any man you desire._

_Ah, it seems I was mistaken. So, you like somebody, yes?_

_Well, the most obvious conclusion I arrived at is that you should work to get closer to the man you like. Of course, there's a variety of ways to approach that. I wouldn't know anything specific, but the first step I could advise you on is to speak with him more. Work toward understanding his personality and merits._

_They were helpful tips, huh? Well, I'm no expert in romance. Try and experiment with what you think feels right!_

We say our farewells, and I pack my meager supplies for the trip home. One last time, I spend an hour in the hot springs to kick my cognitive processes into gear and overall prepare for the day. I'm going to need it for the challenge I have ahead of myself.

Human interaction – the challenge of life that requires years of practice to master. And I haven't even mastered it yet.

I exit the hot springs and check out of the resort. I get into my car, begin playing some tunes, and allow my mind to wander.

...Until I'm interrupted by yet another text. I'm bombarded with them, forcing me to take a break to respond to them. It's the likes of “where are you?” and assorted irrelevant topics; without the loss of composure, I gently but firmly convince her that I'm focused on getting home, forcing me to disclose my location to an extent.

It seemed to have worked; my mind wanders and admires the scenery for the final stretch home. The twisting streams, the elongated mountains, the numerous flora...

You could make Monet cry with some of these landscapes. But I'm sure he'd appreciate flatter landscapes...

I arrived home at noon. I check my phone, and there exists a startling amount of unread notifications.

I muted my phone out of frustration, it seems.

School hasn't changed in the ten years I've attended it.

The things that genuinely shock me anymore is whenever there's romantic drama. I never cared for the “fights” that seemed more like two kindergartners flailing at each other. I've stared at the same navy blue wallpaper, same cheesy motivational posters, same hallways and ceilings, same staircases. The only facet that changes are the faces of the people. It would only accelerate entropy to describe this situation as monotonous.

It's lunch break. Cafeteria, ground floor, immediately to my right the second I exit the staircase. I'm leaving my fourth period class, making my way to the staircase.

I proceed down the steps and

_November 11_

I'm due to be released today.

I hobble out of the hospital and encounter my first task – entering a car. I manage to do so, with great difficulty. The November air isn't kind to my body, attuned to its former atmosphere.

_November 15_

Today, I return to school. For what good it is – it's Thursday, so the week will end soon.

I'm driven to school thanks to my parents; the second I enter the school, I'm somehow bombarded with displays of sympathy and endless questions.

Oddly enough, I'm making a comeback – sure, my grades have been annihilated. But I'm more popular, more loved...

Is this truly what I want?

In the long term, I'll forget all of these faces. Who cared about high school friends in the first place?

In the short term, they're people I'll have to cherish and be around for the next three and a half years. It's a significant amount of time at this age.

I just don't get it. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to even understand all of this.

Causality marches on regardless of my thoughts and emotions, however. My friends show obvious concern and sympathy, and the latter garners me new people to talk to – including women.

I truly wonder how I stand in terms of romance, as well. Do I truly love anyone in this school, or would I be better disposed to wait until college?

Either way, questions resound within my mind while the day marches onward and word spreads. I temporarily conclude that “now's not the time”.

I return home that day, and greet my parents when I come home. As usual, I relay them the details of the day, including the fact that I'd have to readjust to becoming an active student again. They're pleased with my performance so far – academically and socially – and so I maintain the status quo.

Physical recovery, going well. Mental recovery, going well. Social recovery – astoundingly well. Shoot, why don't more people get injured if it makes 'em more popular?

Life at home isn't remarkable. My family gets along well; the siblings cooperate, have fun, so do the parents with their support. There's family trips, there's disagreements, there's times where we keep to ourselves. It's society on the smallest possible scale; however, this is what a functional society is – utterly dull but supportive and tolerant.

Nonetheless, tasks like showering suddenly become challenges when a limb goes awry.

My homework is done, and dinner passes without any issues. It seems I can't solder until my arm recovers; therefore, I read some books. It seems to be a lost art nowadays, what with television and video games. But, what can I say? My father raised me to appreciate art at its finest.

...And like all artists and its critics, they have views of the world that differ from the orthodox.

I have friends, but conversations with them seem dull. They exist merely as emotional support; for when they break, I'm the shoulder they lean on – and vice versa. That's how it must be for the rest of my life; that's how it's been from the very day school began.

That's my very weakness. What cripples me from true perfection – the very idea that I will never reach.

I should stop nagging about school when I'm at home. The educational sphere and the domestic sphere are dramatically different.

Time passes, reverie shattered.

It's eleven o'clock. The TV downstairs fades from soap operas and sports games to late night programming. Maybe the TV sign off just happened?

Either way, I'm exhausted. I've spent a majority of my time on homework. I guess I should plan out the rest of the week.

Devote Friday to homework, Saturday and Sunday to 70% family and 30% homework. Leisure time comes in the form of breaks and whenever my motivation shatters.

Satisfied with that plan, I begin writing a story about my childhood. An autobiography of sorts. I had the emotional impulse and motivation to; if anything, it'd let me leave some sort of mark on the world.

I had no reason to lie. I spoke the truth about my parents. My issues. My environment. Even my philosophy and ideals.

Yet the person in that story wasn't me. It was the person I believed who was me, but represented through words. It wasn't the same person writing this story, or the person that others saw me as everyday.

I realized that. I realized that I was a different person in the hearts of others. To my parents, I was their dream, their successor, their protege. To my friends, another person involved in their social life. To my brother and sister, a sibling, someone willing to listen.

So I wondered – who was I in my own heart? Would my heart care for things like romance, my ideals, my goals, or my curiosities? Whenever I am injured, did my heart care about whether I recovered or whether it looked like I'd recover for the sake of other people? Do I do what I do for sensual pleasure or for appeasement?

As far as I knew, it was truly impossible to know myself. My mind could only rationalize so much; my heart knew the rest, but it didn't think the rest.

How can I speak to or understand something that doesn't think or speak?

I can't; I can only assume.

In a corner of an empty room in my house laid a box of childhood possessions I had.

I never threw it out because of my nostalgia. It was full of old school projects, maps, and pictures of cars that I really appreciated. There were some get-well-soon cards scattered among them, and toys that I just couldn't throw away.

Even my first camera laid there, a primitive little thing using floppy disks to store photos.

So why did it sit there?

Even I don't know the answer to that question anymore, other than the fact that I just _liked _those things sitting there. I never looked through that box ever since I was a child. I just remember one day, I packed up all my toys, all my school things, and stuffed them into a box.

But that box came with me to college. It came with me on my travels. It'd never change. It'd just sit there, shoved away in some corner. It'd take up room in my car's trunk that I could've used for an extra tire jack or a toolbox.

I stare at that box for a good ten minutes before my phone vibrates. It's the usual suspect.

_Hello._

_You're correct. I'm practically free today._

_Seems a little odd to be doing that in cold weather. Well, I have no room to talk. I've done weirder._

_Sure, I'll drive there._

I sigh.

I know what this relationship has become. I'll use this opportunity to end this now before it becomes worse.

I can safely deduce that she is either lying to her parents, has very permissive parents, or is orphaned. The former is the most likely, followed by the latter, followed by the middle.

I pick up my coat from the coat rack, and tie my shoes. I take one last look at the box and the bowl of cat food I've left on the floor.

Maybe that box would make for a nice cat toy.

I start up my car and adjust the climate control. Through experience, I know where her house is and the best route to get there; no GPS required. This also allows me to investigate her house and confirm my suspicions.

This could be considered a date of sorts. To me, it's consuming time on a Thursday; I'm done with work, after all.

I'm driving across a bland suburban landscape juxtaposed with that of rolling hills and the occasional tunnel. The trip has been unremarkable, anyways. Not even the news has much to say today, aside from the weather and the stock market.

I arrive at her house within twenty minutes. Her house is larger than mine and its location is clearly a wealthy neighborhood. This makes sense, based on what I know.

She's already waiting outside the home. The driveway is empty, and there are no other signs of anybody else moving about the home. Therefore, the mystery remains.

In either case, she enters the passenger seat next to me. I don't have to move my eyes to note that she's visibly blushing.

She instructs on where to go, and I oblige. We drive out of the suburbs, and into the mountains. We snake up mountain roads, paved and unpaved, arriving at an overlook.

To our right lies the city. The place where I've spent the last six years of my life, but to her – it's where everything began for her. This city is what cultivated her birth, her childhood, her education, and her leisure.

Beyond the city lies the bay and the ocean; the place where the seagulls cry, where trade happens, where our food is sourced. In this time of year, none of that is true. The seas are nearly devoid of ships, what with the cooling temperatures and ever changing tides.

To our left lies a vast wilderness, undoubtedly a place where she's spent many a camping trip. For me, that wilderness lies purity and virginity; a landscape I've yet to explore, despite my time here.

It also symbolizes that of repetitiveness, since my hometown was located in a similar forest, but different continent. All that's changed are the types of trees and the animals that live there.

But the atmosphere is serene; there's nobody here, and nothing to bother us. We're simply here to enjoy nature, and relax in a warm environment. No ifs, ands, or buts.

The only sounds are those of our voices, our breathing, and the hum of the car charging. The hum provides a pleasant bass line to our orchestra of vocals. (This could probably pass as some sort of binaural beat therapy noise.)

Time passes, and we witness the sun setting to our left. City lights turn on, one by one. The sea fades from blue to black, and the sky is bathed in pink and orange.

Thus, darkness falls beyond the trees.

We leave the overlook, and I choose to treat her for dinner. I decide on a nice restaurant, if only to comfort her and her stomach before I tell her.

She orders what practically amounts to a three course meal. I settle on an omelet and a simple salad. Cue her concern about my health.

I shut my eyes, and rest my head on my hands, patiently waiting for her to finish. I correctly sense that she knows why I'm being quiet, but she doesn't know my underlying motive. It feels wrong that she's placing her concern for me, especially with what I'm going to do.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

You know that this is wrong.

I hope you realize that.

I'm thirty. This is clearly an illicit relationship.

Yes, I knew that. I know my life was lonely. I've accepted that.

Let me rationalize it this way: I know why you'd want someone like me, whether it be out of good nature or not. Maybe you're after it for the money, maybe it's just my personality. I can correctly posit that it'll be fruitless to change your mind.

I'm sure that no matter what I say, you'll blindly accept it. What I can't cause you to accept is that there are other perfectly good bachelors that are much more befitting for you.

Therefore, let me say this not as a friend, but as your senior: I'm at the age where there's no point in getting involved in romance. People who exceed this age either have happy marriages, tearful divorces, or commit infidelities.

A high school romance that you're envisioning is surely impossible with me.

Finally, your parents would disapprove of such a romance. They'd definitely disagree. I don't want to elope with you or ruin your relationship with your parents. They matter more than I do, because they can determine whether your life succeeds or not.

...Ah, I see. (_So it was a possibility I considered to a similar extent. Her parents are simply overseas and lack the time to visit often. Therefore, she's often alone, but the bills and the like are taken care of through them. It'd be easy to lie to them._)

You won't consult your parents, won't you?

…

…

…

I respectfully decline.

I'd like you to consider the consequences of such a decision before you commit.


End file.
